


How to Break A Man

by MelodramaticMrTails



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Injury, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Temporary Character Death, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 10:05:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16427300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodramaticMrTails/pseuds/MelodramaticMrTails
Summary: Slade has been captured and is being held prisoner. Fortunately, his kidnappers only want one thing: Red Hood’s identity. Too bad Slade legitimately doesn't know it.





	How to Break A Man

**Author's Note:**

> hello sladerobin day 3 rescue 
> 
> let me be perfectly clear here, this is torture porn so if that's not your jam, yikes. that being said, skipping the torture parts makes no difference in the story so ctrl f to 'scene skip' for ease
> 
> torture includes beatings, bleach drinking, vivisection + internal electrocution, and throat cutting.

“Are you going to cooperate now, Mr. Deathstroke?”

The answer to this question was never going to be ‘yes’ but considering the last few days Slade has had, the answer is now an astounding ‘I'll fucking kill you, you son of a bitch’. Or it would be if he had any sort of working motor functions. They have him so doped up, sometimes he closes his eyes and he's not sure if he dies or not. The pitch black of the room they keep him in makes it impossible to tell a couple seconds from a couple minutes from a couple _days_.

The light that shines in from the open door is blinding but Slade doesn't move, doesn't have the capability to. They played dirty. As much as Slade is used to people playing dirty, it's rare that they actually get the advantage on him and furthermore, that they keep it. These guys were ready for him, they did their research and checked and double checked their plan and it's obviously paying off for them.

Except for one glaring issue, of course.

Slade _legitimately_ doesn't know the information they want.

For all the work they put into getting him here and making sure he _stays_ here, they're getting nothing out of it because Slade literally doesn't know what the hell they're talking about. He's going to get out. At the end of the day, they can't stop him from reviving no matter what they do, no matter how violent or thorough or _painful_ , he will come back and they will slip up and he will kill everyone in this building and then everyone they know and maybe everyone _they_ know just to be _thorough_.

“Deathstroke,” the man hums at him, pushing his foot against Slade’s face. “Still with us, buddy? I know we haven't broke you already.” He grabs Slade by the front of his shirt, filthy and cheap, and hoists his mostly numb body off the ground. There's several metas in the building and Slade knows a couple of their abilities excruciatingly well.

“You awake in there?” he asks. Slade spits blood into his face and, for his effort, is immediately dropped like a sack of potatoes. The man hisses and spits in disgust before angrily taking out his super human anger on his unresponsive body. Slade doesn't know what it is that kills him exactly this time around but he's pretty sure it's getting his skull stomped into the dirt.

-

They throw food at him to eat not for the sake of keeping him alive but for the sake of making it easier to drug him. Slade eats it just to make things easier on himself. Around here, someone will kill him before he starves to death but even if he doesn't eat, doesn't drink, the laced stuff they give him, it's just another round of some asshole too strong for his own good holding him down and shoving meds in his mouth and needles in his arms.

A badly placed injection doesn't kill him. A broken jaw doesn't kill him.

“If you just tell us what we want to know, this whole visit gets a lot easier for you,” he assures, crouching down beside Slade as he chews through the sorry excuse of bread he's been given. “They're eating steak and potatoes in the cafeteria, you know. Some real good stuff. Wouldn't you love that?”

Slade knows how to weigh his choices. He knows the value of information. If he actually knew what they wanted, he'd probably tell them. He's already lied, twice now, more to get them to leave him alone for a while, but they hold him here while they ‘fact check’. It's not worth doing it again especially when he can't even tell time and they don't exactly get much nicer.

The idea that he's already broken enough that he can be bought with ‘steak and potatoes’ is laughably irritating, though.

He continues to eat.

“A warm bed to sleep in, a shower, some new clothes,” the man lists off. “A lot of money.” Slade is barely paying attention. His _face_ feels heavy and keeping himself upright enough to even eat is becoming a fete, he's not interested in entertaining this idiot's ‘nice guy’ routine. The man grabs his hair, not hard but weirdly affectionate.

“You know, I love your hair,” he says lowly. “It's perfect for pulling.” They've none too discreetly been threatening him with various sexual abuse since a couple days in but they've yet to actually act on any of them. He's sure it has less to do with them having _some_ kind of morals and more that they ‘don't swing that way’ and Slade is far from effemininent.

When he continues not to respond to the goading, the man releases him and walks back to the door with a tired sigh. He picks up a jug, reads the label in what light comes in from the open door, and tsks softly.

“Do you know what this is, Deathstroke?”

Slade chews another bite.

“Industrial strength bleach. Do you know the active ingredient in bleach?”

Holy shit they're trying to bore him to death now. That's new.

“Sodium hypochlorite. It's _extremely_ corrosive to organic tissue. Being such a common household product, people commit suicide by drinking it. It's a long, painful death, you know. Burns you away from the inside.”

Slade looks up at him.

“Have anything to tell me?”

“Yeah,” Slade says. The effort alone is nothing short of excruciating but he throws the rest of his piece of bread at the man, missing him of course and hitting the door frame behind him. “Bread’s dry.”

Shortly after he's forced to drink a lot of industrial strength bleach.

-

“Alright, Deathstroke,” he says. Slade hangs his head exhaustively against the back of the chair he's bound to. He's so tired but he can't sleep. There's no way of knowing how long they've kept him alive, and  _awake_ , for but the lack of sleep alone is making him hallucinate- not to mention far more miserable than anything else they've done so far. “What's your name?”

“Slade Wilson,” he answers, slow and quiet.

“Who do you work for?”

“Myself,” he says. He has no idea how many times he's answered these questions since he's been here.

“What's-”

“Adeline Wilson née Kane, Grant Wilson, Joseph Wilson, Rose Wilson. Ninety two. Six foot two. Yes, yes, yes, no, sort of, and no,” Slade answers at a steady pace. It's silent for a moment.

“Not interested in playing our little game today, Deathstroke?” he asks. It's too much of an effort for Slade to even pretend to care whether he's annoyed or amused.

“Ask some new questions and we'll see,” Slade says.

“Who is Red Hood?”

“Supposedly the Joker before he was the Joker,” he replies, the same as he's always replied.

“Who is Red Hood _now_?” the man demands, making it abundantly clear he's impatient and angry.

“I don't know,” Slade says. As always, _this_ is the wrong answer. He clenches his teeth together to stop from biting his tongue as he convulses in pain under the cattle prod being applied directly to his exposed chest cavity. His heart jolts painfully.

“Who is Red Hood?” he snaps again. Slade rolls his head against the chair back.

“As of when you kidnapped me, I was unaware anyone using the alias Red Hood was in action,” Slade says. Wrong answer. He's tempted to bite his tongue his damn self just so he can bleed out and nap already.

“Who is Red Hood?”

“Your fucking _mother_ , you whore-” Wrong answer.

“Who is Red Hood?”

“I'm going to drown you-” Wrong answer. “In your wife's _fucking_ _blood_.” A pause. Slade doesn't bother catching his breath but he breathes heavily. His lungs seize and jerk in his chest anyways, making it difficult to do even that.

“I'm not married, Deathstroke, nice try. Who is Red Hood?”

So Slade tells him his address and wife’s name instead. That's _really_ the wrong answer.

-

He might actually be losing it, now. They're not ‘breaking’ him; they can't. This isn't because Slade is strictly unbreakable but because that would require some sort of breaking _point_. Since he doesn't know the information they want, he can't be broken, only made extremely angry. He's been here so long now, he can feel it creeping under his skin; the anger and violence and hate boiling in his blood.

He feels like little more than a feral dog.

“Do you know how long you've been here now?”

Slade lost track of time a long time ago. Time he could keep track of? Sixteen days, four hours, fifty six minutes, and counting. Estimate of the time he's lost? Anywhere from a couple days to a couple weeks. They try to disorientate him with lies but it's ineffective.

“Maybe we should allow you some visitors? Maybe seeing a friendly face would make you more willing to talk.”

As much as he'd like to say it's a bluff, it's becoming increasingly obvious they're getting desperate. They know as well as he does that they won't be able to keep him here forever. They know they've made him angry. Slade isn't sure at what point they thought they could come back from this and win over his forgiveness but it doesn't really matter. So far they've focused on him and not his family because they don't want to dig their hole any deeper and they're right to.

Slade may be angry at the moment but right now, he would probably be satisfied with killing everyone here and calling it a day. If they try to go after his kids-

“You do realise you being unable to die isn't a problem for us, right? We can do this for a long, long time. We're even willing to outsource. There are some people who are very, very good at getting other people to talk, Deathstroke. They'll make us seem like amateurs.”

“Is there one that can make you shut up?” Slade asks fleetingly. “I'm trying to die here.” He gestures weakly to the cut in his jugular just large enough not to let him bleed out _too_ fast.

“We knew you were stubborn but _this_ stubborn? Are you _enjoying_ this, Deathstroke? Do you think we are?”

Oh poor them, always the victim.

The man sighs and immediately after, Slade hears the gunshot. Now that really is a new one. They don't use guns on him, that would be too quick and easy. Of course, it only takes his lethargic brain a couple seconds to figure out he wasn't the intended target. He gets to watch, quite pleasantly really, as one of the many men that have been making his life hell for the past two weeks is riddled with bullets.

Several shots to the head don't take him down immediately but the advancing figure isn't deterred. The high impact explosive wedged into the new hole in his face definitely does the trick, though. Slade stares at the body that collapses in front of him and after a long inhale, he snorts a little laugh.

“Bastard.”

“Deathstroke?”

Slade glances up again but it's difficult to see both due to the darkness and his own swimming vision. Still, it's pretty easy to make out who it is; Red Hood, the cause to all his problems. Fantastic.

“Holy shit,” Hood murmurs and his distorted voice is more than enough currently to leave Slade not even a guess to who he is. Slade would sell him out in a second just for the chance to get back at these morons. Hood approaches him quickly and crouches down to press his hand against the cut on his throat. If not for the fact that Slade’s chains stop him from reaching that far, and he's not actually strong enough to move that much, he'd go right for Hood’s helmet.

“Get off of me,” Slade scoffs irritably. Red Hood lifts one of his chains then examines a cuff linking him to them. He only removes his hand once he realises they're not coming off. No, these guys didn't want to risk him potentially picking his way out. They're solid pieces and they're only coming off the way they were put on; painfully.

“Shit, sorry about this,” Hood says. Slade assumes he means the gunshot to the head and not the whole entire rest of this situation.

It's painless at least.

\- scene skip -

Slade is rightfully suspicious when he wakes up and it's not pitch black. He opens his eye slowly, squints at the sheer brightness of the overcast room, and looks around. A safe house of some sort, not his own. Looks like some sort of reinforced warehouse. He sits up and looks himself over.

Naked, sure. No cuffs, though, no chains. He's clean?

This is pretty suspicious.

“Jesus _christ_ -” Dick gasps, nearly dropping the file in his hand. He catches his breath momentarily before looking back at Slade. Dick Grayson, Nightwing- not his safe house. Too- industrial. “You scared the shit out of me. He said you'd revive but I didn't think it would be instant.”

He. Red Hood. His safe house.

“Where am I?” Slade asks.

“Gotham,” Dick replies. “Southside.”

“Why are you helping me?” Slade demands. Dick frowns a little, keeps his distance but obviously hasn't been. The chair beside his bed is still warm, the papers scattered around it recent. He doesn't need watching over- unless they don't want him getting up and leaving, of course.

“You were pretty messed up,” Dick assures him. “RH has had to, uh, ‘put you down’ a couple times so you wouldn't wake up before you healed completely. How do you feel?” That really wasn't the question he was asking. They're not exactly friends. Dick has no reason to be trying to keep Slade alive much less making sure he's _okay_.

“Fine,” Slade answers flatly. He sure as hell feels better than he has in weeks now. The light gives him a headache though and he rubs his good eye with his thumb. “Where's my stuff?”

“Uh, RH brought back what he found. I, uh, I'm not sure where he put it,” Dick murmurs. Lying. He doesn't want Slade to leave yet. This place isn't very big, it wouldn't take him long to search. “Here, I'll get you some water.”

He's tired.

Slade looks himself over a little better, pulling the blanket off for a full body examination. Aside from some few lingering scars that'll heal up once he's satisfied that everyone in that facility have had painful deaths, he's healed up as well as usual. Dick averts his eyes politely as he brings back a bottle of water. Being kept in the dark for nearly his entire stay there, there's a weird disconnect in seeing his own body again- and uninjured at that.

He drinks like he's never had water.

Dick looks nothing short of relieved when he hears movement from another part of the warehouse.

“RH! Deathstroke’s awake!” he calls. There's a brief moment of quiet and then Red Hood continues in. Everything is over stimulating. Slade wants to claw his own skin off but he refrains. As if on second thought, Dick hurriedly reaches over to cover Slade with the blanket again.

Red Hood pauses when he enters the room, stares a moment, then approaches the bed. Dick wanders off to another corner of the room.

“How do you feel?” Hood asks. The second time he's been asked this question in so many minutes now.

“Take it off,” Slade replies. He doesn't have to ask twice. Weeks he's spent being tortured because he didn't know Red Hood’s identity, he thinks he's earned that knowledge. Hood reaches up, unlatches the back of his helmet and pulls it off. The albino spot on his forehead is telling as ever.

‘Did you train Robin?’ ‘No.’

They weren't referring to Dick.

Slade runs through his memories to determine if he should have been able to figure this out prior. He decides no, he didn't possess nearly enough information to make this decision. Jason Todd. A brief student of his. He had been reserved about information about himself, talked a lot but never about who he was or where he'd been or even where he was going. Nothing about any of their conversations suggested he was interested in taking up an alias let alone Red Hood.

Even if they had bothered to show him a picture, he wouldn't have pulled Jason's name. The pit had ‘un’ stunted him but he had still been young when Slade trained him. Since then, he's gotten taller and put on more muscle mass. His silhouette is too different to have tagged him as Jason without seeing his face.

Last he knew, Talia was training him for the shadows. Talia lies.

“Been a while, Slade,” Jason says.

Had he known, Slade would have given him up. He knows Jason would have been able to hold his own long enough for Slade to get free and ultimately solve both of their problems.

“Here,” Dick murmurs gently, breaking the awkward silence. Slade looks at the bowl he's being offered and takes it. He's too hungry to refuse food right now, especially true, honest food. He eats hungrily.

“What did they want?” Jason asks, setting his hood down on the nearest surface and reaching to fluff his hair back out.

“You,” Slade answers. Jason doesn’t say anything. “They assumed I knew Red Hood’s identity, virtue of the fact that I know lots of things as opposed to any real evidence I'm sure.” Dick exchanges unsure looks with Jason. “What happened to the facility?”

“Taken care of,” Jason assures. “They were in my business. A lot.”

“I can tell,” Slade replies. He's not sure if he's angry about this yet. Realistically, it's not Jason’s fault. He might have been the source of this whole fiasco, but he didn't directly cause it. No, someone told them exactly how to get to Slade, exactly how to keep him subdued, _exactly_ the kind of information he could tell them, and that definitely wasn't Jason.

Slade stops, staring at the bowl of food he's been given as his stomach suddenly decides it doesn't like being right side up.

“He's gonna vom,” Jason comments as Slade reaches to put the bowl down. Dick hastily reaches for the trashcan, pushing it into Slade’s hands.

“Not on the bed,” he urges. Slade promptly hurls what little food he's eaten straight into the can, sweat clung to his forehead. He shouldn't have a fever. He shouldn't be _throwing_ up.

“What's in that?” Slade demands, doing his best to stop from vomiting again.

“The stew? Uh, beef, potatoes, carrots, uh, on _ions_?” Dick lists off hurriedly. Jason picks up his abandoned bowl and examines it.

“What did you _lace_ it with?” Slade growls from between his teeth.

“Lace-?” Dick repeats unsurely.

“It's not drugged,” Jason assures, helping himself to Slade’s leftovers as if to prove his point.

“Then what did you give me?” Slade snaps at him.

“We haven't drugged you, Slade,” Jason reiterates firmly.

“We didn't even give you anaesthetic,” Dick agrees. “Jason said there wasn't a point, your body would metabolize through it too quickly.” He's right, unfortunately, but he also knows Jason has been in the facility with drugs strong enough to knock him on his ass. If Jason’s really trying to finish him off after his failure to do so at the end of their training-

Slade moves, wraps the sheet around himself half heartedly as he moves to the edge of the bed. Dick moves out of the way as he stands. He makes it a single step before his legs decide to give out on him and he's forced to take a knee or lose his balance completely. As if actually concerned, Dick moves to make sure he doesn't collapse further and looks at Jason.

“He hasn't walked in a while,” he says. “He probably has muscle atrophy.”

“He doesn’t,” Jason replies. He's right. There's nothing wrong with his legs. “It's all in his head.”

“Jason,” Dick bites at him. Jason shrugs, walking off eating the rest of his stew.

“His body can recover as fast as it wants,” he says. “Weeks of torture fuck you up.”

Slade hates that Dick has to help him off the floor.

-

He's pissed.

There's nothing wrong with his legs and he knows it and the fact that he still can't walk more than a few steps without collapsing _pisses_ him off. Even with crutches he can only hobble around so long before his entire body feels weak.

Eating is an entirely different struggle. He can only get down small amounts of food at a time unless he wants to vomit it all up again. The heavier the food, the worse it is.

He has _fever_ dreams.

Tonight, that's exactly what's woken him up. Slade opens his eye irritably and the dark warehouse stares back at him. It's never pitch black in here, the lights outside shine in through the high windows so even in the dead of night it's easy to see. He glances at Dick, sleeping in the chair at his bedside again. This seems to be more due to him falling asleep in the middle of working as opposed to anything else but the fact that he's at Slade’s bedside at all is still suspicious.

The couch that Jason has taken to sleeping on is empty, though. Why Jason hasn't kicked Slade out of his bed and made him take up the couch yet is also pretty fucking suspicious. They both know there's nothing physically wrong with him and mentally- Slade isn't exactly keen on the idea that his body is reacting this way because he _feels_ bad. He's far more willing to believe there's lingering effects from some of the metas that jerked him around.

Dick opens his eyes drowsily and looks at Slade a moment before closing them again. He yawns, stretches, then he's padding off to the kitchen in the corner. Slade watches as he moves around in the dark eventually returning with more water and a plate of fruit. He sets it beside the bed, inductive of encouraging Slade to eat often, and plops back in his chair to tiredly chow.

Slade picks at it quietly.

He still doesn't understand Dick’s take away from this. Jason makes a little more sense. Even if he has definitely tried to kill Slade, it wasn't personal and Jason respected him as a teacher if nothing else. They don't have any bad blood and more often than not, they have similar ideas of how they want to do things.

It wouldn't be surprising to learn Dick loathes him between the outright stalking, just general harassment, and severe differences in morals.

As Dick reaches for the plate again, Slade touches his hand. Dick looks at him curiously as Slade grasps his fingers gently and rubs a little spot with his thumb on the back. He seems a little flustered.

“Where's Jason?” Slade asks.

“Oh, he went to follow a lead on some people that were working with the facility that kept you,” Dick assures. It's not surprising to learn neither of them have any resemblance of a normal schedule.

“You don't have to do this, you know,” he says, gently stroking Dick's palm.

“It's fine, really,” Dick replies, nervously biting his lip. “I don't mind.”

“Thank you,” Slade says. He sits up and Dick awkwardly pulls his hand into his lap again, fidgeting now. “Having you so close while I'm recovering is nice.” He doesn't say anything. Slade pulls himself to the edge of the bed to face him and Dick looks at him questioningly. He inhales sharply when Slade grabs the seat of his chair and physically yanks him closer to the bed, the sound of wood scraping on concrete echoing through the hallow room.

“Really,” Slade says again and Dick's breathing is high in his chest as he leans forward. “Thank you.”

When Slade started this charade, it was to push Dick off guard. He didn't actually have any intention of kissing him, let alone anything else. Despite common belief, he actually does have morals and they're not exactly aligned with kissing a kid not even a third of his age on a whim. That being said, it's not him that does it.

Dick crosses the distance between them suddenly and kisses him solid on the mouth, instantly, and seemingly unwittingly, turning the tables on him. Slade is caught off guard, confused above all else as Dick breaks the kiss briefly only to move in for another one.

So Slade grabs him by the throat, as planned, and throws him into the mattress, digging his fingers into Dick's jowls to hold him down. The sudden change is enough to startle him, his eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. Good, now they're both startled. That being said, Dick doesn't immediately try to get free but instead just lays there and looks vaguely alarmed like he's not sure what's happening.

“What the hell is wrong with you, kid?” Slade snarls at him. “What do you think you're getting out of doting over me like a dying dog?” Dick is obviously too confused to offer anything resembling an answer. Slade grips his jaw even harder, making him wince under the pressure. “Do you know how easy I can snap your neck?”

Dick proves, once again, how annoying and nimble he is to fight at close range- especially when even now Slade’s legs aren't interesting in cooperating. Out of the fucking blue, Dick gets his leg up far enough to kick Slade in the back of the head, distracting him long enough so he can jab his elbows into his wrist and break the hold on his face. From there, it's an annoying scramble of a fight.

Mostly annoying because Dick knows he can't walk right now and getting away is about as easy as rolling off the bed. Instead, he quite intentionally doesn't do that. After several minutes, Slade’s irritation fades into exasperation and Dick gets the upper hand, rolling on top of him and gripping his strong legs around Slade’s waist, hands braced on Slade’s chest. Dick huffs loudly.

“I'm willing to forgive you for what you've done, Slade,” he says firmly. “Are you?”

“No one asked you to ‘forgive’ me,” Slade assures coldly.

“ _Jason did_.”

This isn't going how he had planned. Slade doesn't know what to say to that.

“Jason asked me to help him make sure you were alright. He seems to think you're an okay guy and I'm willing to trust his judgement no matter what's happened in the past, alright?” Dick snaps at him. “I'm not getting _anything_ out of this.”

“You sure reciprocated that kiss fast, kid,” Slade says. Initiated it, in fact. Dick actually blushes.

“That was- you started it,” he reminds him quickly. Slade arches a brow at him. “You're- handsome, I guess, and I've always kind of had a thing for older guys? I wasn't- I didn't mind?”

“Not even trying to hide our ‘daddy issues’ now, are we?” Slade comments. Dick blinks in utter astonishment. He gets off sudden and hastily, wide awake like he wasn't a few minutes ago.

“Oh my god,” he says. “You're a real charmer, you know that? I need some air.”

Slade is extremely aware of how clearly he could feel Dick’s hot cunt against his stomach even through his pants, like Dick was honestly gearing up for something more to happen. His fever dreams of Dick trying to smother him with a pillow is long forgotten about.

-

He hates being bed bound. Restless doesn't even begin to describe it.

“What's up?” Jason asks, not even looking away from his book to do so, feet propped on the edge of the bed. Dick has better things to do today. Either that or he asked Jason if he could have some space after what happened which Slade doesn't blame him for. Everything about that situation was uncalled for. Slade continues to sharpen his hand blade tediously.

“Nothing,” he answers shortly. Jason snorts a sound as he turns a page. “What are you expecting in return for this ‘kindness’?”

“Fair payment,” Jason says as if that means anything. Slade knows a blank check favour when he sees one. He's owed lots of them. “You don't have to stay here.” He really doesn't. As much as walking is a useful tool for leaving, Slade knows very well he could still go home. Pay Wintergreen a little pocket money to check up on him now and again for the next couple weeks while he recovers.

“What have you found on the facility?” Slade asks. Jason turns another page.

“Independent,” he says. “Good at getting information. Targeted me because they either wanted me to work for them or, if I refused, to kill me. Targeted you because of loose facts.”

Annoying but ultimately, it makes sense. Once he's walking again, Slade will find out himself who sold him out. There's not a lot of people who know what they were told. He'd hate to find out if it was most of them, unfortunately.

Jason takes his feet down, closes his book, and leans forward. Slade looks at him mildly and Jason grins.

“Relax, pops,” he says. “You're sharpenin’ your knife down to nothin’ there.” Slade looks at it irritably, turning it over in his hand before tossing the stone aside. He angrily jabs his knife into the table at his bedside, rattling everything on it and splashing tea all over its top.

“There's work to be done and I'm trapped in someone else's bed by my own mind,” he sneers. Jason pats his thigh with a heavy hand.

“You're just pent up,” he assures. “Need to burn off some of that extra energy.” The hand on his thigh changes gears instantly from a weird comforting gesture to an extremely obvious sexual one. Jason slides his hand to the inside of his thigh and up.

“What are you doing?” Slade asks shortly.

“Offerin’ you a hand job,” Jason replies. He's not coy in the slightest. Slade stares at him. “I ain't jokin’.”

“Clearly,” Slade says, grabbing Jason's wrist firmly to stop him. “Why?”

“Are you kiddin’? I've had a hard on for you since you trained me as a teenager? Figuratively, obviously,” Jason answers and while he doesn’t fight Slade’s grip, he makes it clear he isn't interested in moving it, either. “If you were a lesser man and I hadn't known you'd throw me out if I even suggested it, I would'a come onto you then.”

What the hell is happening anymore? He's got to be drugged still. He's got to be straight fucked up. He's laying in the dark somewhere with some asshole meta deep in his subconscious trying to yank his chain.

Except he's not and he knows it and that just makes everything about this situation that much more weird.

He can make more sense of Dick's ‘attraction’ to him. Issues with father figures paired with an unnatural attraction to things he finds dangerous and the inability to figure out any other way to deal with Slade suddenly being ‘amicable’. Jason's likely stems from a similar place of lacking parental figures paired with the sudden change the pit put him through-

Jason puts his _other_ hand on Slade’s dick.

Slade stares at him.

“You're a brat,” he says. Jason grins.

“If you're not down for a handy, I can ride your dick instead,” he offers. That's a bit of an escalation.

“I'm good,” Slade assures. “I'm a little much for you to handle.”

“That's bold of you to assume,” Jason replies, squeezing Slade’s cock through his pants. Slade grabs his wrist with the other hand. “And yet, I can see why you'd say that,” he murmurs, his tone vaguely impressed.

“ _Emotionally_ ,” Slade clarifies irritably. Jason gives him a bland look.

“I don't know what that even means but I'm already angry about it,” he replies. Slade physically takes Jason's hands away.

“Get off of me, kid,” he scoffs.

“Whatever,” Jason scoffs back, obviously a little scorned. “When you get that stick out your ass, let me know.” He sits back, spreading his thighs obscenely wide, and gropes his cunt through his jeans suggestively. He goes back to reading.

-

Slade has fever dreams about threesomes with Dick and Jason. It's going to be a long road to recovery.


End file.
